


Fight

by EeveeAlchemist



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 07:44:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20870678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EeveeAlchemist/pseuds/EeveeAlchemist
Summary: Short Story: "He is the strongest. The loudest. The undisputed champion. I am nothing." Rated for depictions of violence and a few curse words and name-calling instances.





	Fight

**Author's Note:**

> There are a few curse words, name callings, and a bit of violence. Not your cup of tea? Please enjoy another story. Thanks!

This is it.

I take a deep breath and enter the ring. The screams of the crowd pummel my sensitive ears. But the loudest sound right now is the sound of my own breathing. I focus on it and move forward.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

In front of me lies the arena, a large concrete mass that has been ripped up by the matches before mine. The observers do their best to pave it before each match if given the appropriate time, but the matches during the festival are back-to-back, leaving little room for luxury. A straight hour of preliminary matches have left the stage in shambles, and there’s little flat space left to work with. Mainly, it’s just rocks and shards of broken cement. My ripped sneakers make crunching sounds as they press against these shards. I always used to love the sound as a small child. Now, I barely notice it as I continue to focus on remembering to breathe.

He stands on the opposite side of the stage. I didn’t know him before I entered this school half a year ago, yet his presence is now an overwhelming force in my conscious. He is the strongest. He is the loudest. The angriest. The undisputed champion of our course. I am nothing compared to his greatness.

He rolls his neck as I take my place before him. His overconfidence is evident in his smirk. He knows that I don’t stand a chance. I will use that against him.

The announcer’s voice floods the arena. “Are you ready?” he asks.

No. I am not ready. But I can’t back out, either. Not after coming so far. Not after receiving so much support from my classmates. My friends. My family.

“Begin!”

I steel myself and try to remember my training. Spread out. Get into stance. Breathe. Don’t look at his fists. Keep your eyes on his face. Breathe. Watch his expression. Watch your back. Breathe. Get ready. Breathe. Breathe.

My opponent’s sneer suddenly vanishes. “I’ll give you a chance,” he tells me. “Give up now, so you won’t get hurt.”

I can’t believe what he’s saying to me. He’s wanting me to throw the match. Why? So I won’t get injured? Or because he doesn’t want to look bad fighting someone like me?

I give my answer by making the first move. I push off from the concrete in a running start, heading straight for him. I only have ten steps before I reach him, so I must be prepared. I have little time to strategize. I let my body take control. My left fist reaches back while my right arm moves forward to prepare momentum. My feet push off, striking the uneven ground powerfully. I don’t focus on where I’m stepping - just on keeping my balance.

He just stands there, letting me come. I do. I don’t stop. My eyes lock into his. I aim directly for his nose. I imagine my fist crunching into his face. Breaking his nose. Pushing him back. I know that I can’t knock him out. I’m not strong enough. I just need to push him backwards. I need to get him out of the ring. When I get close enough, I swing.

The crunch is audible. It only takes a few seconds for the pain to register. I gasp and recoil, falling away from his outstretched arm. My back hits the uneven tile and I struggle to regain some level of clarity. When my vision does clear, he’s standing over me, his fist poised to strike again. His face is perfectly intact. My punch didn’t reach him at all.

He growls at me. “Get up,” he barks. “Get up and fight, you coward!”

My breath catches. A coward. Is that what I am? “No,” I ground out, pushing myself back onto my feet. “I’m not a coward!” I’m suddenly furious. A guy like him has no right to call me a coward. He swings at me again, not giving me time to balance, so I let myself fall again to dodge him. I’m successful this time. His swing misses, but he’s smart; he didn’t use much strength, so he’s able to right himself quickly. I don’t let him get the satisfaction of finding me on the ground again.

My stomach hurts. His first punch hit me right in the gut, and I have a sensitive stomach as it is. But I let the pain drive me forward. I push through it, lunging straight for him. He’s maneuverable. Strong, but lithe. He dodges me easily. I continue to chase him. I kick and swing. He continues to dodge. I continue to chase.

His smirk returns, and I can see that he isn’t taking me seriously. He begins to slow. My fists graze his cheek; my elbows connect with his blocking arm. He’s letting me close on purpose. He’s taunting me.

Now’s my chance. I use his weakness - his inability to take those weaker than him seriously. When he gets close again, to try to make a fool of me, I take him by surprise. He comes in from the left, thinking I’ll come in from the right with a punch.

I pivot, and kick him from underneath. His legs give out, and he gives a startled gasp.  
My brain switches off. The next moments are a blur. We are trading blows. He is fighting me off, cursing all the while. Pain blossoms in my stomach and my face as he hits me over and over, yet it’s his blood that I see when I smash my fist into his shoulders and cheeks. Time isn’t passing. We trade blows like no one is watching. His eyes are blank. Mine must be too. We aren’t fighting to be scouted anymore. We’re fighting to prove something. We’re fighting for glory. This goes on for as long as we can both handle.

I find myself on the ground after he smacks me so hard, my head turns sideways. I register screams from the crowd. One of them is probably my mother, who is watching from the family section of the stands. Dully, I register blood dripping from my nose and a split lip. I try to stand, and my stomach protests so hard that I retch, right there on the arena floor. I am beaten.

He stands over me, panting sharply. His nose is visibly broken and bleeding. It looks like he might be missing a tooth. And his right shoulder is beginning to sport bruising already. But he is standing. And I am not.

He growls at me. “You bitch,” he says. “You thought you could win?”

No. I didn’t think I could win. I would tell him so if I could speak.

Instead, I flash him a smirk. He snarls in reply before backing off to let the emergency crew through. He will pass on to the next round. I will not. But I accomplished my goal - to hurt his pride. After all, no one in our class has made him bleed until today. Today, I became the first one to do just that. He lost to me: an extra.

I deftly hear someone calling my name. I see my person running towards me. He looks worried. Do I look that bad? How embarrassing…

My vision fades as he approaches. The nurse will take care of me. I will be fine. Maybe the lesson I gave my opponent will knock him down a few notches, so he’ll stop bothering me, and all of our other friends.

I can only hope. 


End file.
